


Come

by poisontaster



Series: Light 'Verse [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Anger, Angst, Hotel Sex, Infidelity, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-31
Updated: 2006-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-27 18:57:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5060197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean needs proof of concept.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come

Dean thumbs his phone, calling up Sam's speed dial number. He stares at it blankly for a while. He hasn't called Sam. Not since they fucked. And Sam hasn't called him. Because that's the deal. But every day, Dean _wants_ to call and that's pissing him off just a bit.

Dean mashes the **END** and drops the phone roughly on his desk.

He's angry with himself, mostly. Angry for…wanting it, wanting Sam. Still. He's angry that he can fall back into this so easily, when it's been years and Sam's the one that dumped him flat and left him behind for the second time, only this time worse, because Sam's still _there_ all the time and Dean can't have him and he can't push him away. And Dean's tried to tell himself that it's _fine_ , because they don't have to fuck to be together. That Dean hadn't planned any of this anyway. It hadn't been his idea. Not before the curse, anyway.

But for as much as Dean tries to tell himself that he doesn't care, that it doesn't matter, that he was doing it all for Sam because _Sam_ wanted it, somewhere and when he knows it changed.

It all changed.

Dean sighs heavily and picks up the phone again, thumb caressing the plastic absently. He hits the speed dial and **SEND** fast and hard, before he can change his mind. He's not this guy. He doesn't waffle about things. He doesn't moon over his love life or sex life or whatever the fuck you want to call this. He doesn't back down just because he's scared.

And let's not bullshit here; he's scared.

"'lo? Dean?" Sam sounds both sleepy and tentative and Dean remembers belatedly that Sam's only been off work for five hours.

He doesn't let himself think about that—Sammy sleepy and half-naked in a nest of warm blankets. He doesn't let himself feel the guilt of waking him when Sam already works so hard. Sam asked for this. Sam set the rules. "You know the Knotwood, over on Theodosia and Pine?" he asks instead, brusque.

There's a long silence from Sam's end and Dean checks the display on his phone to make sure the call hasn't dropped. But the numbers are still ticking steadily and finally, Sam says, "Yeah." A breath, then; a sharp inhalation with a catch at the end that sends chills down Dean's neck because he _knows_ that sound. "Yeah, I'll be there. When?"

"Now," Dean says, fast and almost tripping over the word in his haste to get it out before he can chicken out. "How soon can you get there?"

"I'm leaving now." The sleep is gone from Sam's voice, but the hesitation rings out louder. Dean thinks—hopes—he understands. But he's made that mistake before.

He ends the call without saying goodbye and gets up on legs that feel both wooden and unreliable. He's— _they're_ —really going to do this. They're going to try.

 

God, this was such a clusterfuck mistake. Dean doesn't know what he's doing here. Sam's not going to show. Dean can't conceive of any way that he would. And he's got things to do—work—more important than sitting around a cheap motel, twirling the room key around and around on his thumb and waiting for something that's never going to…

The door opens and Sam's silhouette bulks dark against white daylight. Sam turns towards him unerringly, like he knew where Dean was all the time, and the corner of his mouth twists into an embarrassed half-smile. Dean's lips twist up too, though he doesn't know he'd go so far as to call it a grin, and Sam pushes the door shut with his heel.

Dean doesn't know what he expects; it's not like they've done this before. It's not for Sam to toe his shoes off and kick them aside. To take off his coat and hoodie without a word and drop them to the floor. It's not for Sam to come over to stand between Dean's outspread knees and pull his tee-shirt over his head, leaving him naked to the waist, nipples already pinpoint hard. It's weird. Too easy, as if Sam is just some whore Dean's bought and paid for.

Sam's hands go to his belt buckle and Dean reaches out and grabs his fingers to still them. Sam looks down at him, an expression on his face that says clearly as words: _Are we going to do this or not?_ And suddenly, Dean doesn't know. He doesn't know if he can go through with this. Doesn't know if he should. Which is just an irritating and foreign thought, because before Sam, he never spent this much time considering where he stuck his dick. And Dean feels angry and he feels turned on and mostly he just feels relieved and happy Sam's here at all and it's just _fucked_.

The key is still on his thumb, pressing into the placket of Sam's jeans. Sam's fingers pull out from under Dean's and then spider over, fingertips light and caressing. He tugs Dean's hands away from his belt and the key drops with a muted jingle. Sam drops to his knees just after it, boneless and liquid. Dean's done with it then, the whole stupid debate—as if there was every any other way this was going to turn out—and he digs into Sam's hair, dragging Sam in and claiming his mouth.

Sam opens for him. Just…opens, all wet, slick heat and soft, dry lips and the pliant spar of their tongues. Sam reaches for Dean's belt and finds Dean's already unbuckled it and the button's already undone. Sam palms Dean briefly instead, sliding friction against his cock. Dean can't pretend he doesn't want this. Can't pretend that he didn't come here for exactly this as Sam takes Dean's cock in hand and he hardens and grows to fill that enormous curved palm. And still there's all this anger, seething just below everything and he doesn't even know why. Only that it makes his hands harsh as he tears at Sam's belt, making Sam's body sway. He shoves his hands down the back of Sam's jeans, gripping his ass hard and jerking Sam in closer even as Sam strokes Dean in short, rough movements. Sam's not wearing underwear and Dean groans, pre-come slicking his cock in thick bursts.

They still haven't said a word. Their mouths haven't even come apart yet, panting frantically against each other's lips between licks and bites.

Dean drags Sam up, pushing up from the chair and Sam struggles to get his feet under him. It's awkward and clumsy, negotiating the foot of space between the chair and the bed, but Dean gets Sam under him, Sam clutching and moaning as they grind against each other. Dean bites Sam's neck, right at the pulse point where it meets his jaw and they wrestle his jeans off together, kicking and writhing, and then Dean's clothes.

Dean forgot lube in his haste but Sam—genius Boy Scout—didn't; Dean slicks Sam's fingers and then guides Sam's hand down to his own opening. Sam's eyes are lust-dark and trusting as he presses inside himself. He doesn't lose eye-contact as his back arches and his teeth cut into the wet-red line of his lip. More lube and Dean's shining up his cock with one hand and Sam's with the other and Sam lets out the softest whimper, hips bucking up. "Dean…"

"Shh." Dean spreads Sam's thighs wide, just watching him fuck himself on his own fingers. Sam's eyes go half-lidded, glittering from under lowered lashes and he tilts his hips up, body undulating slightly to the thrust of his hand. Dean's body feels heavy and thick as his thumbs stroke across the trembling, soft insides of Sam's thighs. Sam's penetration is shallow and Dean knows it's going to hurt when he eases Sam's fingers away and replaces them with his cock.

Sam gasps and arches sharply when Dean thrusts in all at once, making Sam take him. His mouth opens and his head tips back against the pillow and he looks…beautiful. Christ. Sam looks beautiful, feeling Dean inside him, eyes closed. Dean's throat aches as he pistons deep and Sam makes that same soft, pleading moan. It shouldn't hurt like this. It didn't used to hurt like this. Or maybe it did, he'd been so happy then, it's hard to remember the bad.

A thousand memories of motels just like this one, the over-bleached smell of the sheets bleeding into the smell of them—sex, sweat and come, the flowery scent of Sam's shampoo. A thousand different ways they'd tangled up together, him in Sam, Sam in him, lips, tongues, fingers and cocks. Those are the easiest ways to count, of course, but Sam tangled him up in other, deeper ways too and Dean knows it. Maybe he's screwed up Sam too, who knows? Maybe that's why they're here, fucking and fucking each other up all over again. He hates it and hates that he doesn't hate it enough. He hates that he doesn't regret it.

It's nothing that Sam does, but suddenly, Dean realizes he's fucking Sam too hard, too rough, that Sam's cock is only half-hard between them and Sam's body is trying to force him out. Sam's trembling, his skin hot and friction-slick with sweat. Fuck.

Dean stops. Just _stops_ , Sam's inner muscles fluttering around him distractingly as he slurs to a halt. This…this was a mistake. He should never have come here. Should never have asked Sam to come. He doesn't want Sam to be his whore, he wants _Sam_. Sam doesn't deserve this.

Sam's eyes open as Dean starts to pull away, pull out. The lashes glitter with sweat or tears, but Sam's look is still the same; open and trusting even though Dean has to have hurt him. He latches onto Dean's forearms, fingers digging; his legs and thighs and inner muscles all pull in and tighten, holding Dean in place. "No."

"Sam…" Dean's voice wavers on the name, half-plea. He threads his right hand into Sam's thick, soft hair, thumb brushing across his brother's damp temple.

"No," Sam says again. His voice is faint and fucked out, scratchy. He shifts under Dean, hips writhing and Dean finds his own body thrusting in answer, like a reflex. "It's okay, Dean. I… Just touch me." Another slow roll-buck, taking Dean in and letting him slide partway out. Dean pants. "Please. Just touch me." Sam's hand slips down the bunched muscle of Dean's forearm to his hand, his fingers, twining through and pulling Dean's hand where he wants it.

Sam's cock twitches the moment Sam wraps Dean's fingers around his shaft and Dean fucks slow and gentle into Sam again. Sam arches, his chewed up nails gouging Dean's skin and his throat vibrating with his shaky moan. "Yeah," Sam breathes. "Oh…God, Dean, yeah."

Sam comes up on his elbow and Dean leans in. Sam bites Dean's lip, a move that seems directly connected to Dean's dick, making Dean jump and drive deep. Sam shivers and laughs, teeth releasing to be replaced by his mouth, sucking and soothing. And it's like that quiet, puffing laugh unlocks something in Dean. It's like he remembers why he's really here. And he laughs too. It feels good. It all feels really, really good, which is why he never lets himself remember—how much he misses this.

He does miss it, though. He misses it like he misses his father, though he knows that's a weird and uncomfortable correlation. But as far as he knew, this— _them_ —was just as dead. Dean smoothes his thumb over the soft, wet slit of Sam's cock, spreading pre-come and lube over the warm, delicate skin. "Dean," Sam sighs into his mouth.

Dean's good at this. At fucking, at making it good. He can make this good for Sammy. Dean draws back and out, almost all the way, and lets the ridge of his cock head rub against the stretched ring of Sam's body, in and out, all the while continuing to stroke Sam's now-hard cock. Sam groans and whines, alternately deep enough to shake Dean's bones or high and needy, making Dean that much harder, that much longer inside him.

"Dean. Dean…" Sam's hand curls around the nape of Dean's neck, scratching the skin lightly so that shivers run down Dean's spine. "You feel so good. God. _Dean._ Feel so good."

"I know." On the down stroke, he thumbs Sam's balls, soft and plump. "I know, baby."

"Oh God…" Sam suddenly twists and writhes and _lunges_ and suddenly Dean's the one flat on his back, Sam working himself down deeper on Dean's cock. Dean gasps, the change in angle and tightness robbing him of all sense. "Say it again," Sam asks, fingernails raking lightly over Dean's nipples.

"What?" It's Dean's turn to whine, the ragged edges of Sam's bitten nails across sensitive pebbled skin making his whole body break out in goose bumps. He can't think; there's only body and body heat and _Sam_.

Sam's head ducks so Dean can only see one of his eyes and the dull brick-red of his blush through the hanging fringe of hair. "You know." His hips roll and he slides on Dean's dick like they were always meant to be doing this, feeling like this.

And it feels silly, because he never calls Sam that on _purpose_ , it's always something that just comes out of him, but Dean runs his hand up Sam's bunched and flexing thigh, feeling the hairs crinkle, and says softly, "Baby. Baby, baby, baby."

Sam swallows hard enough for Dean to hear it and shudders down the length of his body, riding Dean faster, harder. Dean's close. Jesus. It feels like it's coming out of nowhere, but suddenly, he's so close. "Sammy…"

"Do it," Sam urges. His fingers comb through Dean's hair, ticklish, slipping over his scalp. His thumbs frame Dean's face and their eyes try to burn holes in each other. "Yeah, Dean, come on. Want you to. This is for you. I'm for you."

And Dean breaks. Just breaks, any control he thought he had or wanted to have dissolving into sugar water and smoke at Sam's hoarse, half-chanted words. _Mine. Mine, mine, mine._ He doesn't know if he can believe it forever but for now, _right now_ , it's true. Dean cries out; his back bows hard as he comes, his fingers locked on Sam's thighs and pulling his brother down onto him until he's ground as far inside Sam as it's humanly possible to get.

Sam moans and writhes, riding Dean soft, his knuckles tickling against Dean's belly as he strokes himself. "Dean," he gasps, tightening and shaking around him even as Dean slips away. Sam feels softer, hotter when Dean's all sensitive and the way is slicker with lube and his come."God. Dean."

Dean reaches around and lets his fingers replace his spent cock inside Sam, slipping through heated and swollen muscle to find and finger his prostate. Sam twitches and moans again, head bent all the way so there's nothing but glossy hair and wide mole spattered shoulders and whipcord lean, muscled skin. "Come on, Sammy," Dean rasps, almost no voice left. "You too, baby. You too."

Sam's fingers tighten on Dean's shoulder so hard Dean knows there will be bruises and Sam's whole body seizes as his cock spurts, thick and pearly, on Dean's belly and chest. Sam's gasping and crying so loud Dean thinks everyone in the world can hear them and he's just fine with that. Sam's come down is slow, his fingers still digging rhythmically into Dean's skin long after he's ceased to pulse. Inside, Sam's still quivering, clinging to Dean's fingers as Dean strokes slower and slower, gentler and gentler, easing Sam back to him.

Finally, Sam mewls, almost too quiet to hear, and rises on his knees to let Dean slip out of him. Dean cups Sam's ass instead and Sam shifts to sprawl over Dean, their skin slick-sliding over each other and their harsh, panting breaths slowly synchronizing and evening out. Dean buries his other hand in the tangle at the nape of Sam's neck, scratching idly the way he knows Sam likes. Sam makes a noise and turns his face against Dean's skin. His fingertips roam Dean's ribs and side, swoops and obscure, arcane shapes that lull Dean toward sleep.

_Sam._

It seems like he should be thinking about a lot more but this is all there is; this sleepy replete completeness, like two broken halves that have again slotted together. Dean snorts a little at the thought, so ridiculously romantic.

"What?" Sam's voice is slurred, barely-awake.

"I didn't think you'd come," Dean says finally, the first words that come to mind.

Sam is silent for a long time, long enough Dean might have thought he was sleeping except for the poised tension of Sam's fingers on his side. "Yeah," Sam says slowly in his thoughtful voice. "I know." He resumes petting, arching his neck into the scritch of Dean's nails against his nape. "I'm working on that."

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by mona1347, with my thanks.


End file.
